


A Good Match

by monochromatic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7821535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragan Cousland is newly married to the bastard Prince Alistair, and happily so. Then a sudden change of events weakens their marriage and throws King Maric into mourning. The pair of them find more comfort in one another than is entirely appropriate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The young Cousland girl was forthright, sensible, and she usually had mud on her boots — she would make a princess that a proper Ferelden could respect. More importantly, Alistair seemed smitten. Maric wanted to be thrilled, but thrill was wasted on youth, so he settled for being content. 

She stood, leaning against a post and smirking while Alistair made a happy fool of himself. Her laugh rang through the yard, dark and harsh just like her beloved Highever. Maric watched her straighten and give his youngest a cordial slap on the shoulder in passing. The lad looked after her, dumbstruck. 

“I’m happy he’s happy,” Cailan said, smiling. “Do you think she’s happy?”

Maric glanced at him; happiness didn’t do much for the sadness at the corners of his eyes. He knew that look. “It certainly sounds like it.”

While Cailan was trained up in Rhetoric and Politics and History and Governance, he got to watch as Alistair was mostly left to his own devices. Unburdened, unhindered. He couldn’t even enjoy a trade of envies, as Alistair was vocal about how he didn’t want the crown. 

Cailan shifted his weight and sighed. “I should get back to Anora; she’s expecting us for dinner, of course.”

“Of course.” Maric was charmed by his daughter-in-law; she was her father’s daughter, certainly — that is, if Loghain had also figured out etiquette and how to dress himself. 

After Cailan had disappeared back into the palace, Maric approached the young couple. “I hate to interrupt young love, but I do believe we’re expected for dinner, soon.” He poached Cailan’s words. “My lady,” he offered a dignified incline of his head to his impending in-law.

She grinned, ear-to-ear. “It’s Ragan or nothing, Your Majesty,” she told him firmly. 

Chuckling, he indulged in a rejoinder. “Is the irony lost on you?” After a pause, he insisted, “It’s Maric or nothing,  _ my lady _ .” When she didn’t respond, he found himself a tad disappointed. Her sharp tongue was an admirable trait. “Might I escort you?”

She shrugged into a laugh — not the same brazen bark from before, but something quieter, less assured. Color rose in her cheeks. 

“My own father swooping in to steal my bride — unsurprising,” Alistair remarked casually.

“I’d hardly call this a swoop,” Maric argued. “More of a calculated step. It’s all very strategic.” He winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair; I’ve never been good at strategy. Why do you think I’ve kept Loghain around all these years?”

“Maric?” she murmured. “Your Majesty?”

“Of course, my manners.” He offered his arm and she took it. 

As he led her up the palace steps, she turned over her shoulder and bid her betrothed farewell. Once they were inside though, she dropped his arm. He didn’t begrudge her. She didn’t seem a woman for gestures, from what little he’d seen. 

They walked mostly in silence. In the muted light, she dwindled. She kept her hair pinned back, but he could tell it wanted to escape. He wondered how she would wear it at the ceremony; he envisioned a wild, dark mane framing her face. 

“Who will be giving you away?” he asked to break the silence. “Your father, your mother?” It wouldn’t surprise him if she said it was to be Fergus; she and her older brother seemed close enough.

After a moment, she relinquished an answer. “No one.”

His eyebrows rose. “No one? I can’t wait to see that.”

Defensively, she explained, “I’m not...I’m my own to give.” 

He nodded, sensing she wasn’t finished yet.

Looking straight ahead at nothing, she said, “It’s only...that joke, the one Alistair made outside. About you, stealing me —”

“I would  _ never _ —”

“Of course you wouldn’t! No! I only meant...I’m no one’s to steal, you know? I belong to me.”

He didn’t answer her, because he had nothing to add to that discussion. He hoped she didn’t take his silence for disapproval. The rest of their walk, she held her head high, as if she had something to prove. Her conviction was compelling. In that moment, she almost reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on the resemblance.

Upon reaching her quarters, the stillness between them was broken: her laughter rolled forth, full like summer thunder, until she worked to repress it into more of a polite cough. A colorful, brimming floral arrangement had been delivered to her door. There was a note, penned in familiar, careful calligraphy. 

“Anora means well,” Maric assured her, smiling. “She likes flowers herself, so of course she’d send you some.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said.

“I’m sure there’s a lovely vacant vase somewhere in this place.”

Crossing the threshold, she retreated into the suite. “Good evening, Maric.”

 

✷

 

The night before the wedding, there was such a commotion that even Maric came by to investigate. He watched from down the hall as Cailan, joined by a rowdy band of comrades, was doing his best to persuade Alistair to come out to the Gnawed Noble — and then, probably, the Pearl. Arguing with him was the bride — in her night dress, no less. Caught between them was Alistair, looking increasingly put-upon by the entire affair. It was the best comedy Maric had seen in awhile.

“Oh come on!” Cailan was staring unabashedly through the sheer fabric. “Just a last night of fun before...you know…”

“Alistair will have his night of fun,” she insisted. “And it certainly won’t be his last.” Then she bodily pushed Cailan out of her way and slammed Alistair’s bedroom door behind her.

Looking dazed, Cailan glanced about. “Can she do that?” 

The party made their way out of the wing, presumably to carry on without the guest of honor. Maric went back to bed, chuckling to himself.

 

“It’s really not all that difficult, I promise,” she told him.

“But I don’t want to hurt you,” Alistair frowned. 

“You won’t,” she insisted. How this man came from the same stock as his father and brother was a mystery. It was no secret that Cailan was a philanderer and was rumored to be a skilled lover; as for good King Maric, well...you didn’t end up with a bastard son by keeping your vows.

Alistair laughed nervously, his voice teetering on the edge of cracking. It was endearing. “I’m glad you’ve done this before,” he said. “Not that I mean you’ve done it a lot. Or that it would be bad if you  _ have _ done… I’m just going to stop talking now.”

“Good plan,” she said. “If you need any help, I can think of a few occupations for that big mouth of yours.”

“Oh can you?” He waggled his eyebrows. Then, “Wait... _ can _ you?”

She laughed. “Oh, Maker, just lie down and let me show you!”

 

✷

 

In the morning, the commotion rose to a boil, what with servants and guests alike running about, trying to organize themselves. Maric stayed out of it, amusing himself as a bystander until duty called. He waited patiently by the altar, ready to receive his son and witness, officially. 

Cailan and Anora had married in Denerim’s Chantry, and though it had been a beautiful ceremony, it had that indomitable solemnity that always dogged royal affairs. Today’s was a cheerful event, held outside in perfect weather and with a small guest list. Their wedding was private, held in the palace gardens, walled in from the prying eyes of the public.

The ceremony itself was gorgeous; Maric stood still and quiet, watching the proceedings. He caught himself grinning until his jaw was sore when Alistair made his way to the altar, clearly uncomfortable in his staunch wedding clothes. Ragan though, when she arrived — a tad late, but just enough to rile up a little suspense — stole the whole show. Her hair had not been allowed to run wild; instead, it had been contained, held in place by an insurmountable number of pins, most likely. There were diamonds in her tightly-bound hair, shimmering under the sunlight. She held her head high while she took deliberate strides down the aisle; it reminded Maric of the way she’d carried herself in the hall the night before. Without thinking of it, he wiped wetness from his eyes.

“Andraste Herself must be green with envy today,” Alistair whispered. 

Maric disguised his chuckle under a cough.

The couple exchanged vows, led by the Revered Mother. Maric was touched by the emotion he saw in his son. Alistair was never so candid; it was strange and poignant. The couple shared a look, tied up in one another, Alistair beaming stupidly. His bride’s smile was small, reticent, like behind her teeth, you might find a secret or two.

They kissed, and the world seemed to revolve around them.

The reception wasn’t nearly as grand as Cailan and Anora’s had been, and it was obvious that that was how the couple of honor liked it. After their dance was joined by the rest of the party in the grass, Maric picked through the small crowd of whirling couples and snatched up his daughter-in-law. In turn, Alistair took Eleanor Cousland’s hand and led her poorly in circles — she seemed amused enough.

Maric knew the steps and even enjoyed them, some. “This certainly is your day,” he remarked softly.

“Did I do alright?” Ragan asked. It was the first time he’d heard her sound nervous.

“You did beautifully.”

She laughed breathlessly in his ear. “That whole walk down the aisle, in front of all those people...I thought I was going to lose my breakfast.”

“I never would have known.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

They danced for a while in silence, Maric twirling her gently, clockwise, counterclockwise, leading her into a tame spin under his arm. For a moment she was suspended only by his strength and her own trust before spinning back into him.

“You’re some dancer, for a girl who shoots better than some of my own soldiers.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I like to dance. I like to hunt, too. I like a lot of things, Maric.”

“Is there anything you don’t like?” he asked, perhaps a bit slyly. 

She went quiet, and he wondered if he’d offended. He was on the brink of an apology when she said, “I’m young; there’s still an awful lot to try, isn’t there.”

He smiled. “Yes, there is.”

Handing her off to Alistair in passing, Maric retreated to a table to nurse some red wine in the shade. He squinted in the sun, taking stock of the situation. Alistair and Ragan had slowed to barely a two-step, foreheads touching, swaying in time; Cailan and Anora were having a quiet argument at their table; Loghain was parked nearby, scowling into a mug.

Maric sat beside his old friend. Teyrn of Gwaren; Hero of River Dane; some kid from a farmhold out in the Bannorn. He followed Loghain’s eyes to their children, bickering as such. “They’re going to be fine,” he said. But offering reassurance to Loghain Mac Tir was pointless; he didn’t want it and he didn’t need it. 

“You know I care for Cailan,” he finally said. “But he is your son, in every way.”

Maric sagged into himself a bit. “And what do you mean by that?” This was an exercise the two of them had been through before, although it had been so long that Maric had hoped they were done.

“Some of the fault lies with me, surely,” Loghain grumbled. “Maybe I could’ve raised her to be more...nurturing or something.”

“Now don’t start with that. You and I both know it’s horse shit.”

Loghain cracked a smile. “Fair enough.”

The two of them watched the crowd. Everyone was mingling, stopping by to congratulate the newlyweds before being politely dismissed. The two of them seemed almost spellbound by one another. 

Loghain smirked into his mug. “I think we finally found a couple who love each other.”

Maric nodded, ignoring the familiar sensation of his heart sinking.


	2. Chapter 2

The wine was better here, Ragan decided, but she might also have imagined it. Antiva was so different from Ferelden; not better, not worse, so far as she could tell. Just different. Every day was mild and clear. She lay stretched out under the sunshine, naked, unconcerned with the possibility of passers-by. Their balcony was high up anyway, and she had never been terribly modest.

She smiled and hummed contentedly when she felt Alistair’s big hands on her back. He was gentle, and she wished he’d be firmer with her.

“You’re going to burn, you know,” he told her. “What vegetables would you like to be served with, dear?”

She laughed. She loved how he made her laugh. He was so strange sometimes. “I don’t know. You’re the one who’s going to eat me, so you choose.”

He pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I think you’d go nicely with some potatoes. Yes, baked all golden, to match you.”

“You’re so weird,” she smiled, stirring from her rest. It was good of him to come out here, really; the sun and the wine were lulling her to sleep. She stretched, cracking her spine, rolling her shoulders. Then she caught her husband staring at her bare breasts. Smiling, she pushed them together, bowing her shoulders and batting her eyelashes at him.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he said.

“No?” Reclining, she slid a hand down her body, tracing circles on one of her thighs. Getting bolder, she parted her legs, giving him a view as she teased herself.

“Well clearly you don’t need me.”

She bit her lip, feeling herself get wet. “No, I don’t. But I like you.”

“You like me, do you?” Alistair covered her body with his; she ran her hands over his back, his shoulders, down his chest. She hovered around the tent in his sleep pants. “That’s convenient, seeing as we’re married and all.” He kissed her deeply. He kissed with enthusiasm, and it was fun, refreshing even.

This entire situation was strange. She had enjoyed many girlhood crushes — when she was much younger, she had wanted to marry Gilmore, and couldn’t be convinced otherwise. There had been others, too: young noblemen, castle staff, and even a visiting noblewoman’s lady-in-waiting, once. In all that time, she had never imagined herself with a prince — not even Maric’s bastard prince. They’d met perhaps a month ago, and now Alistair Theirin had his mouth on her tits.

When she felt his fingertips edging nervously around her cunt, she playfully batted him away. “Let’s go inside.”

“As you wish.” He scooped her up and carried her into their room. It was so comparatively dark that she felt as if she’d gone blind; sunspots swam in front of her face, distorting her vision. He set her down in a plush armchair and got on his knees. He buried his face between her legs and she arched, the space between her back and the chair a welcome relief; was it always so hot, here? The scruff on his face was scratchy and tickled her thighs. He was clumsy and unpracticed but his enthusiasm was more than enough to make up for it. He did try to open her up a little too early, and she had to gently redirect him, but he took it well. When he came away for air, the sight of his face all wet from her was enough to urge her on. She directed him, pushed against him, guided his hand.

By the time he had two fingers in her, she was covered in sweat.

The two of them danced around one another, kissing and groping until Alistair pushed her onto the bed. He maneuvered her and she liked being manhandled. He positioned her on her back and spread her legs and just looked at her for a moment.

“Please?” she asked sweetly.

He nodded, his breath heavy while he rubbed his cock against her, getting it wet. He struggled a moment to get it in, so she guided him with a hand until he slipped inside. The both of them moaned and she wrapped her legs around his hips; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop him or force him closer. He tried to start slow but it didn’t take long for him to lose patience. She enjoyed him, though, the way he filled her, how close he was to her. His hands roamed along her body haphazardly, without purpose, just feeling. His hips picked up speed, his thrusts losing rhythm. He smiled while he came, and she loved that.

When he pulled out of her, she went limp for a moment, collecting herself. She could make him take care of her, or she could do it herself, or she could roll over and go to sleep. Her body was drenched and the sheets stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She inched herself off the bed and went into the bathroom; the cold tile was a blessing beneath her feet.

Alistair called lazily for her from the bed, but Ragan pretended not to hear him over the tap. She slid into the cool bathwater and relaxed, teetering on the edge of sleep.

 

✷

 

Maric wasn’t there when the ship came in, though he sorely wished he was. Anora and a small contingent had congregated at the docks with wine and flowers and the like to receive the happy couple, back from their honeymoon. Meanwhile, Maric was joined by Loghain and Cailan in his office, the door locked while they spoke with a pair of Grey Wardens. Mostly, it was the Wardens doing the speaking, really.

Maric gazed out a window as he listened. It was a gorgeous day; the leaves were green and huge, flowers at full bloom, not a cloud in the sky… When the meeting concluded, Maric remained with Loghain, shaking hands.

“That Duncan is going to be looking for recruits, you know,” Loghain said after the Wardens had left. Shaking his head, he sighed. “We all knew it had to happen again eventually. Still, it may not be a Blight.”

“Since when are you so optimistic?” Maric asked.

“You know, they don’t shy away from recruiting princes; not even you could refuse a Conscription.”

“There are plenty of Wardens in Orlais. All they need to do is send word —”

“You’re having me on.” Loghain looked at him with hard eyes. “We don’t need to involve the Orlesians in this.”

“They’re not Orlesians, Loghain — well, I imagine _some_ of them are — but they’re Grey Wardens! It’s hardly the same thing. Though to tell the truth, if this _is_ a Blight, I wouldn’t see the harm in sacrificing a chevalier or two instead of our own.”

“And after all this time…” Loghain looked green in the face. He threw his hands up and did a tactical retreat. Maric trusted that the next time they saw one another, all would be forgiven. Just down the hall, another argument was taking place, though less quietly and in plain earshot. Cailan and Alistair were almost nose-to-nose, glowering at one another.

“And why not?” Alistair said. “I want to protect our country as much as you do!”

“That isn’t the point.” Cailan tried to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder but Alistair flinched away. Cailan looked hurt. “What if something happens to me? To Father? You have a responsibility.”

“Don’t say that.” Alistair was fidgeting, as he always did. “What about Anora? Surely she would rule in your absence?”

“No.” Cailan looked sad, and his voice had become gentle, though his face was scrunched up in pain as he said it.

Maric remembered Cailan and Anora arguing at the wedding and suddenly, his stomach began to churn. There was more to this argument than he could know, and he didn’t want to burst in on it here. He didn’t know how to approach Cailan, or when — or if he even should. If anything, he’d half a mind to search out Loghain and apologize.

And as if all this wasn’t enough, of course Ragan had to turn up in the middle of it, still in her travelling clothes. “What’s going on here?” she asked sternly. “What are you two squabbling about?”

Cailan put on his most charming mask and replied, too smoothly, “Nothing but a bit of sibling rivalry — you know how it is.”

But Alistair wasn’t having it. “There’s to be war.”

“War?” she frowned, looking frantically between them. Cailan, having been sold out, looked like he was going to defect. “With whom?”

“In the south; they’re talking about gathering a force at Ostegar. Darkspawn horde, allegedly. Father and Cailan are going, and they decided not to invite me.”

“And what about me?” she asked. “I’d certainly be useful for something like this.”

“Absolutely not,” the brothers said in unison, surprising one another.

Awkward silence clung to the air, but eventually Cailan took the lead, the way he always did. “I’m not about to widow either of you. Please, be content to stay here; someone has to look out for our home. Besides,” he adopted his usual cheerful veneer again, “won’t it be fun for the two of you to play house?”

“Don’t you condescend to me, _Prince Cailan_ ,” she sneered. Maric was oddly pleased. “Keep it up and I’ll have my boot playing house up your —”

“Good luck,” Alistair said, but he had his hands on her shoulders, easing her away from her brother-in-law. “His head’s already so far up there, I don’t think there’s room.”

They dispersed, looking all at once tired and agitated. Cailan lingered, looking after them before turning away.

 

✷

 

Rows upon rows of soldiers were divided up into neat lines. It was going to be some march.

“It won’t be enough,” Loghain observed from his horse.

“We’ve managed more with less,” Maric reminded him.

“We were younger, then.”

“The Darkspawn can’t be half as bad as the Orlesians, can they?” he joked, and took some pride in the brief twitch of a smile on his friend’s face.

Cailan arrived as well, his posture proud, his face almost glowing in the sunlight. He was saying goodbye to Anora, leaning down to kiss her. They were picture-perfect, or so it seemed.

Alistair and his princess arrived as well, to see the troops off. Alistair tried to offer encouragement rather than condolences and did a poor job of it. He looked a bit off, dressed in full armor and wearing the face of a concerned mother.

The young princess looked quite right all suited up, however. She favored chain and leather, apparently, and had a pair of longknives at her back. She stopped before Maric and his entourage. She waited for him to make the first move, but he didn’t, so she broke rank and reached for his hand. He allowed it. She kissed his knuckles.

“Good luck, Your Majesty.”

He watched as she repeated the gesture with Cailan.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my wife, Steff, and my good friend Rory for helping me immensely on this fic. It gets twisty and difficult and they help me keep my stuff straight and supply me with better ideas than my own.


End file.
